


Wet Rot

by masonverger_rising



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Gore, Multi, Nipple Piercings, it's just filth pure and simple, the grossest fic, you know what this is just straight up gross out porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4132485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonverger_rising/pseuds/masonverger_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mason Verger is a terrible person. Terrible things happen to him in the pursuit of a good time.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>This is just straight up gross out porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Rot

The attack is carefully orchestrated; a nightmarish ambush. Five masked men break into Mason Verger’s private home at ten past one in the morning, they find him at his desk in the study and carry him out restrained hand and foot, a heavy black bag over his head.

He is bundled into the back of a van, gloved hands removing his clothes none too carefully. Mason’s robe is yanked down his arms, a knife slits his shirt up the back and another takes his belt and trousers.

All of this has, of course, been negotiated and planned beforehand. Mason’s staff will not notify the authorities, and no one will be hurt in any way that hasn’t already been agreed to.

Mason is lying buck naked in the back of the van, the rubber matting does little to cushion him from the corrugated floor. His wrists are tightly bound with hemp rope, his legs aren’t tied but pinned by heavy bodies. He can feel nitrile gloved hands wandering over his skin. He doesn’t make a sound aside from his laboured breathing.

They touch him all over, that slightly alien feel of the gloves (and Mason struggles to remember whose idea those had been, but he doesn’t want to linger on it, doesn’t want to be distracted), hands on his belly and his thighs, feeling under his arms, pulling the binding around his wrists so that his ribs are unprotected. Fingers combing through the crisp hair under his arm and low on his belly.

None of them touch his cock,  _one_  finger brushes against his left nipple and is jerked away the  _second_  he arches with a deep, throaty moan. There’s a flurry of murmured curses and Mason’s cock bobs, half-hard between his thighs.

Soon the van slows and stops. Again Mason is lifted bodily from the floor and carried out, the night air sharp against his skin, and then swiftly he’s carried inside. He is crushed between a number of bodies, arms straining as they manoeuvre him down a steep flight of stairs.

Mason is set down carefully on a cool, hard bench. A thin cushion is placed under his head, the bag replaced with a thick blindfold. His arms and legs are untied but held by multiple people, still stroking and petting, still gloved and strange feeling.

He pulls against them and they hold him securely, he struggles, thrashes so hard that he lifts himself off the surface they’ve placed him on and is suspended by their grip.

When he relents, exhausted, they lay him down again. He’s panting, there’s a flush in his skin and a faint sheen of sweat on his chest and back. As his breathing evens out he can faintly smell body odour and damp earth.

There’s a clatter of metal on metal, and Mason tenses again, he knows what’s coming next and he dreads it almost as much as he looks forward to it. He pulls against the hands holding him again and they tighten, he feels more joining in, gloved hands pressing at his hips, his belly, someone holds his head still, cradling the curve of his neck.

A thin, cool hand traces a line from his collar bone to the point of his chin. Bare fingers on his skin, his cock throbs and another maddening gloved fist wraps around it, cold with lube.

He bucks a little but he can hardly move, he hears the snap of a glove and another tiny rattle of metal on metal and the bodies around him shift to make space for one more.

Now Mason’s still, quivering with tension. The muscles stand out taut in his thighs. An alcohol swab leaves an icy trail over his right nipple and then without even enough time for him to draw a breath a clamp is placed on it, not hard enough to  _hurt_ , but feeling sharp and inescapable.

The hand on his cock pumps once, firmly and Mason makes an unsteady keening sound in his throat.

First he registers a  _tiny_  prick, and then it feels as though his nipple is being  _torn_ off. He shouts wordlessly, his cock throbs and precome glistens at the head. There are grunts of exertion from the people restraining him.

The calm, steady hands shift the needle slightly, align the jewellery with the hollow tip and draw it back through his tight flesh. Every slight movement of the needle sends jolts through his whole body, his cock throbs in the fist holding it and his teeth are bared in a feral snarl.

Respite for a moment, as the ball is screwed onto the bar. The hands which have been only holding now relax a little, petting him again, smoothing over his sweat-damp belly, running over his thighs, through his hair. Mason’s nipple throbs and aches and he can feel the pain-pleasure running directly to his cock.

Now his cock is stroked slowly, another hand, again cold with lubrication slides over his testicles, down to his entrance and carefully begins working him open. One finger at first, twisting and teasing him, then two. The hands holding his legs tug them wide until he’s spread-eagled, more hands now reaching down to fondle his balls, the soft skin of his inner thighs until Mason is whimpering, on the verge of begging.

Another small metallic click and all movement stops. The hands stay where they are, the fingers in his hole  _almost_  brushing against his sweet spot. For a few moments Mason writhes and struggles, trying to gain that little bit more friction.

But. The steady hand on his chest, cold alcohol swab and then the cool sharp press of the clamp on his left nipple now and his breath catches.  _Just_  as he feels the first prick of the needle the hand on his cock begins working him furiously and as that awful, tearing pain sears through his nipple he comes in a hot splatter over his own belly.

There is an appreciative murmur through the group, Mason suspended between them, panting and straining, his cock twitching and pulsing with a few last drops of come as the jewellery slides into place, his mouth stretched wide, lips slick and shiny with spittle.

Abruptly there is a shift in the atmosphere of the room, where the restraining hands had been staid, calm, now there are tremors, little thrills of excitement that tickle against Mason’s sides.

The nimble fingers inside him curl and stretch and then withdraw and are replaced by a thick, blunt dick, just as a mouth closes over Mason’s oversensitive cock.

He bucks and struggles feebly, but that only draws delighted hums and grasping fingers. He is stroked and petted and manhandled and he can feel hard cocks being pressed against him; frotting against the crease of his thigh and the curve of his ribs. Someone pushes a thumb into his mouth and then lowers herself onto him and he rolls his tongue against her clit, mouths her until she spasms and cries out.

More than once an errant hand bumps the tender flesh around his tortured nipples and he jumps and clenches and moans. His cock grows hard again and his captors take turns using him, sharing fairly but not gently, Mason comes again, and again, until it’s painful.

In the end he is trembling and jelly-limbed from fatigue, his hole is stretched and wet and his cock is chafed and tender. Steady hands take the blindfold from his face and long fingers drag through his hair, caressing his scalp. A warm towel is draped over his shoulders and he hisses as it brushes his nipples.

His head is tilted back and he opens his eyes – vision blurry without glasses – and he can see [Johnnie](http://masonverger-rising.tumblr.com/post/99110059075/johnnie-johanna) looking down at him with a quiet smile. She’s been working for the family for years, one of the best lawyers that they’ve ever had. One of the most regular fuckbuddies that Mason has ever had. He smiles drunkenly back at her and then closes his eyes again, leaning into her touch.

Much later Mason wakes in his own bed still feeling bone weary and oddly muted. He feels over the pillows and there is no-one in the bed with him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and winces and shivers as his arm bumps against his chest.

When he blinks at the dimly lit bedroom he can see he isn’t alone after all. Johnnie is sitting beside the bed, a book cradled between her hands, one finger marking her place.

“Feeling okay?” her voice is low and even and it takes Mason a few moments to process even that simple question. He lifts up the bedclothes and looks at himself blearily before he nods, “are you warm enough?” another nod and Mason’s eyes are growing heavy again.

Johnnie stands and sets the book aside, she pours a glass of water and patiently holds it for him to drink. When he’s done she sets it back on the nightstand and slowly pulls the bedclothes down around his hips.

There are faint marks on Mason’s skin still, fingernail scratches and the imprints of teeth. He feels faintly grimy but only at the joins of his body – someone’s given him the once-over with a washcloth.

Carefully Johnnie looks at the piercings without touching them, she takes a small spray bottle from the nightstand and mists solution over each one.

“I’ll leave you a note with this, but you’re going to have to take care of those.”

Mason nods again, his skin is standing out in gooseflesh from the spray and sleep feels like a chasm opening up under him.

“Clean them once in the morning and once at night and don’t touch them,” simple enough.

He’s drifting off, Johnnie perches on the side of the bed and lays her slender hand on his belly, rubs slow circles until he’s asleep and then pulls the covers back up to his chin.

Her handwriting is neat on the note she leaves pinned under the bottle of solution.

The next week is a chaos of last minute meetings and high stakes negotiations – on Monday Mason set out with an overnight bag, and by Wednesday he realised that he was going to be away for far longer than he had thought.

He sleeps uneasily alone in his five-star hotel rooms. For two days he avoids touching his nipples, they’re so tender that even the weight of his clothing is almost too much for him to bear, but then they begin to ease.

Thursday night alone again and he’s standing by the window idly fondling himself, looking down on the heads of people walking in the street below. He wonders if he could lean out and spit on one of them from all the way up here.

He wonders if any of them could look up and see him nude in the window and framed by the light from the crystal chandeliers.

Mason scratches at his collar bone absently, his wrist touches his right nipple and sends a live spark that makes his cock twitch in his hand. He is distracted from the people below as he explores this now, one hand tugging and twisting at the piercings and the other working his hard on.

He plays with himself until the small hours of the morning and goes to bed aching, so badly that he can’t sleep, keeps feeling the sheets against his nipples, or the pressure of his arm against his chest and coming back to awareness. The next day his shirt feels like sandpaper against his nipples and he’s snappy in his meetings, he has to excuse himself twice to jerk off in the bathroom.

On Saturday night he has cleared his schedule. What’s the point of being head of a company if you can’t have your weekend free. He has had clothing sent to his hotel and now he slides into a pair of leather trousers and the lightest weight shirt he owns and he goes out, cruising through bars and nightclubs until he finds what he wants.

The boy is young, though not  _outlandishly_  so, Mason spots him using a fake ID at the bar and he wonders how exactly he’d gotten past security at all.

Not that it matters, of course – their incompetence is Mason’s gain.

It’s almost laughably easy to have the kid wrapped around Mason’s finger. He plies him with drink and flattery and soon is leading him out to where Mason’s town car is waiting out front. Mason has to suppress laughter at the way the kid’s eyes bulge as the driver steps out to open the door for them.

In the back of the town car Mason lets the boy have space, sits with his knees comfortably apart, propped into the corner of his seat so that he can watch the boy without turning his head, watches the light from the street lamps sliding across his pretty features.

“What’s your name?”

“Lewis–” the kid says it so quickly that Mason is certain he’s spent most of the day practicing in case he was caught out with the ID.

“Call me Mason,” he stretches his arm out along the back of the seat without touching  _Lewis_ , “you seem a little keyed up – you’re okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine – great,” Lewis keeps bouncing his leg and he turns to give Mason a wide, toothy grin.

Mason wonders who the kid is trying to convince. He smiles back, slowly and offers a hand, tugs Lewis closer when he takes it and pauses there, their noses barely an inch apart, he can smell spirits on Lewis’s breath and he can feel his nervy trembling. The kid puts a hand on Mason’s shoulder for balance as the car rounds a corner and Mason pushes his hands over his hips, up to the small of his back, pulling Lewis into his lap.

The car rolls to a stop and the driver gets out. Mason lets Lewis pull away and hears him laugh under his breath.

Up in Mason’s suite the sound system is still playing something soft that Mason doesn’t recognise, he leads the kid in and turns to watch the play of expressions across his face – Lewis is trying to keep himself composed, to hide his awe at the room.

“Have a drink?” Mason starts, reaching for the minibar, but for the first time that evening he’s surprised: Lewis closes the space between them and crushes himself against Mason, presses their mouths together. Mason laughs and wraps his arms around the boy, tugs him into the bedroom.

There is a lot of clumsy pawing and scrabbling at buttons and zips, Mason finds himself laughing as he strips the kid, pulls him close and reaches down to squeeze his pert arse. Lewis is laughing too, laughing breathlessly and clinging to Mason’s shoulders, leaning up to lavish him with messy kisses.

Mason hears his own shirt tear as Lewis fumbles with the buttons – he only grins when the kid looks at him with alarm, and at that he redoubles his efforts, tears half the shirt away with a spurt of frayed silk.

“Here,” Mason mutters when his chest is bare, wraps his hands behind Lewis’s head and pulls him down, presses his mouth over his left nipple. For a moment the kid sucks, his tongue unfurls to slide over the bar, the raised peak of Mason’s nipple –

–And then he pulls back, his face screwed up, “ _Augh!”_  there’s a fleck of pale slime on his lower lip that Mason pushes his thumb through, “that’s not good–” Lewis is cut off by Mason’s thumb sliding into his mouth.

“No, no – really,” there’s a note of worry in the kid’s voice, “my sister had her belly piercing look like that and she had to see a doctor and everything–”

Mason just  _looks_  at him and Lewis shrinks.

Lewis lifts his hand up, hesitates for a moment and then pinches Mason’s other nipple between his fingers, squeezes it carefully along the length of the horizontal bar until a bubble of green pus wells out of one side.

“Huh,” Mason looks at it for a moment and then back to Lewis’s mouth, “go on,” he says.

For a second Lewis looks shocked, he blinks rapidly and takes a couple of shallow breaths – Mason is almost certain that the kid is going to back out, tuck his tail between his legs and scram – Lewis ducks forward and closes his lips around Mason’s right nipple, his tongue finds the pus and he shudders at the taste, but then Mason’s hands are smoothing over the back of his head, grabbing at his shoulders for balance and he can ignore the taste for that.

Mason is hard in his trousers already, his cock straining against the supple leather, he places Lewis’s hand on his bulge and rocks against it with a groan.

_That_  perks him up, Lewis’s hands are trembling, and he fumbles the fastenings of Mason’s trousers trying to get them out of his way. Mason laughs in surprise and steadies himself on the kid’s shoulder, he groans as he feels that hot mouth close over his cock and he pushes forward, his hand on the back of Lewis’s head, he looks down and sees a tear drop down the kid’s cheek as he gags. No one ever accused Mason of being gentle.

Lewis vacillates between ecstasy and terror. Mason shoves him onto the mattress and instead of saying  _wait, stop!_  he says  _yes, more_ , he had thought he was ready, that he’d wanted this but the realisation dawns that he hadn’t even _known_ what he wanted. Sure, there had been a nuts-and-bolts understanding of the mechanics of it all, sure he’d fooled around with other guys a little before, but not like this, never so far or so fast. He thinks he might be shaken to pieces by it all.

And Mason revels in it, in the uncertainty and the fear and the shock, it inflames him, spurs him on until he’s run himself into exhaustion, until he slips easily into a dreamless sleep with the boy still spread under him.

It is already light by the time Mason wakes up in the morning. Lewis is tangled against him – the kid is already awake, though he’s pretending to be dozing. Mason looks down the length of Lewis’s body, taking in the scrapes and bite marks, the faint finger-shaped bruises on his thighs. He ducks his head to suck against that bare, bruised throat and smiles when Lewis shifts and groans.

“Morning,” Mason says, and squeezes the kid, “alright?”

A mumbled “Mmhmm,” and Lewis struggles to sit up, winces at the pull of his muscles.

Mason runs a hand over the length of his spine, “Breakfast?”

Lewis pauses for a moment and then shakes his head no, “I should get home, my M–” he struggles for a second and then, “I should get home.”

Mason smiles lazily and pulls himself out of the bed, stretching. He can feel Lewis’s eyes on his back and all the confusion and lust and fear that he’s trying to avoid showing. Bless teenagers and their insecurities.

“You going to take a taxi?” Mason doesn’t wait for an answer but fishes his trousers off the floor and finds his wallet. He peels out a few crisp hundreds and tosses them back at Lewis. Far too much for a taxi fare. He turns and sees the kid’s face turning red as he looks at the money, then almost purple as he snatches it up off the bedding and scrambles out to find his clothes.

Pleased with himself, Mason spends the morning lazing around watching cartoons, he has breakfast brought up for himself and picks over it, neglecting everything but the coffee. He doesn’t bother to dress. Now there is an ever present tingling in his nipples, like there’s something fizzing under his skin. They look red and sore and when he showers he squeezes them and more pus oozes out. He watches it run away with the water.

At some point Mason falls asleep. He wakes with a crooked neck, the television is blaring infomercials and there’s a throbbing pain sitting just behind his eyes. He feels too warm and he can feel that the sofa is damp where he’s sitting on it, sweat-soaked. He runs a hand through his hair and it comes away feeling greasy.

With a groan Mason hauls himself out of the seat and slopes back toward the bathroom – a late-onset hangover, perhaps, or maybe he’d taken something he shouldn’t have. Whatever it is, the best cure he knows is more of the same.

He dresses in his leather trousers again, a light shirt and heads out. Tonight he doesn’t want to play, tonight he wants to be  _demolished_. And for Mason it is not difficult to find someone – or several someones – willing to fulfil that want. He works his way through bars and clubs, picking up the likeliest suspects. Eight or so guys follow him up to a private lounge on the upper floor of one of the swankier clubs.

“Here’s the deal,” Mason’s feeling buzzed and easy; they’ve been messing around a bit, a few of them grinding along to the music while he watches, lazing on the sofa. There’s a bucket of bubbly on ice and they’ve gone through a few rounds of good vodka, “this is a gang bang,” he pulls a bottle of lube out of his pocket and waggles it. He has their undivided attention now, “The guy with the biggest cock goes first – so you’d better start measuring.”

There is a very slight moment of hesitation and then it all comes together. 

In short order Mason finds himself bent over on the sofa with his trousers around his knees and a hand gripping him by the collar, pressing his face against the back of the sofa as he’s breached in one long, unrelenting push. The others crowd around, a pair of them manage to jostle their way in front of Mason and he squirms until he can lift his head, mouth wide to take them, sucking and licking whichever of them pushes near enough to reach.

The second one takes a moment before he begins, Mason looks over his shoulder and sees him grinning, smug, then he feels a firm press of fingers over his perineum, collecting up the come and lube running out of him and pressing it back inside. Mason groans and buries his face against the cushions at the sensation of nimble fingers playing with his hole, his cock throbs untouched between his thighs.

This one grabs a fistful of Mason’s hair as he fucks him, drags his head up and Mason feels his glasses slide to the end of his nose, not that he can fix that – he should have taken them off, but it’s too late now and there’s another cock sliding into his wide mouth, into his throat. It feels like he might choke on it, suffocate and ride right up to heaven with a huge cock rammed in both ends, _hallelujah_.

It goes on like this: they take it in turns and none of them are gentle. Some of them take him with a bruising grip, yank his hair until his scalp aches, pinch and scrape him. Some of them squeeze his cock hard enough to hurt, working him until he’s on the edge, begging between gasps for air. There is come running down his chin, splashed on his back and dripping down his thighs, staining his trousers and the sofa under him. He loses himself, spilling laughter and filled with these men, they drip wine into his mouth and take him again and again.

The moment when Mason passes out it’s like a switch being flicked. Before it’s all noise and being screwed into the floor, and then he’s in the cold, the stink of piss heavy around him, his trousers hiked up but still undone, his cock hanging out. He groans and tries to pick himself up but the alleyway lurches and bucks under him, he rolls onto his side and pukes a thin streak of bile.

No cell phone, no billfold in his pockets. He draws his knees up and greys out again, his cheek pressed into his own sick. Footsteps on the concrete behind him and Mason’s acutely aware of his arse hanging out of his trousers, how stretched and sloppy he is still. Rough hands close around his upper arms and he tenses, but then he’s lifted up and it’s his driver, his gnarled face twisted into a mask of anger.

The huge man wraps an arm around Mason’s chest to haul him out to the waiting car and Mason promptly blacks out again.

He wakes intermittently in the hotel en suite, laid in the tub and swaddled with towels. The smell is terrible, caked on filth, urine, and puke. When he’s able to prop himself up Mason turns on the water and lets it run, watches it soak through the towels and bead on his leather trousers. First it’s cold through his shirt, making the fabric cling to him, then hot then scalding.

It takes forever to peel his clothes off, sodden and sticking to him. Mason admires his new bruises, reaches between his legs to feel how tender and puffy his hole still is; still leaking. He tugs his shirt off and looks down and feels suddenly cold and very still, a moment of violent clarity.

His nipples are red-purple and pulpy, green pus smeared at the ends of the piercings, the skin peeling and flaking around them. He lifts his hand to touch one experimentally and he greys out with a sense of the room swooping up around him. He is still looking down and he sees the skin burst, blood and pus and clear yellow fluid weeping from his rotting flesh. 

He presses down on one end of the piercing and it lifts  _through_  his skin, tears it like sodden paper and then Mason passes out again, the water raining hot on his back as he’s slumped over his knees.


End file.
